


Gone With The Pixies

by Verlaine



Category: The Professionals
Genre: 5 Things, AU, Mental Health Issues, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verlaine/pseuds/Verlaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four situations in which somebody associating Doyle with being an elf gets Bodie and/or Doyle killed, and one where it only gets them in a lot of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone With The Pixies

**Author's Note:**

> A long (lo-o-o-ng) time ago, the discoveredinalj com had a fanon/canon challenge. My prompt was "Doyle looks like an elf, all slender and waif-like". Well, I missed the deadline - by several years - and the story went off in numerous directions, but I finally pulled it all together and got finished.
> 
> Many thanks to przed for beta, good advice and encouragement.

**I**

Bodie had never had much use for Shakespeare. His immediate reaction to Twelfth Night had been, "But anybody can see those two aren't twins!" and Hamlet left him grinding his teeth in frustration. Put a sword in _his_ hand and his father's murderer wouldn't last the day. If pushed, he'd allow that the Henry plays weren't bad, though based on his own experience Bodie was fairly certain young Prince Hal had been more worried about pissing inside his armour than making poetic speeches the morning before battle.

So when Cowley gave him his latest assignment, Bodie was less than thrilled.

"An actor?" he said, not bothering to hide the dismay in his voice.

"Raymond Doyle." Cowley turned the photograph on his desk so Bodie could get the full view. 

Bodie's eyebrows rose. " _That_ kind of an actor?" 

The photograph of Doyle was a professional shot that showed him on stage, in front of several large potted plants and a couple of chunks of rough grey plaster that Bodie decided were supposed to be boulders. Except for a skimpy piece of green cloth wrapped around his loins, Doyle was completely naked. The angle chosen by the photographer had caught perfectly the well-defined lines of muscle in his legs and back, the neat curve of his rump, the surprising breadth of chest and shoulders over boyishly slim hips. 

"The Tivoli prides itself on being at the cutting edge of the theater world," Cowley said, sounding as if he were quoting from some tourist brochure. "The picture is one of several promoting their latest production, a modern interpretation of A Midsummer Night's Dream."

Bodie thought for a moment. "Some bloke gets a donkey's head." He looked down at the picture of Doyle. "Looks like it's not him."

"Doyle is playing the role of Puck, not Bottom."

Bodie grinned and stroked his forefinger along Doyle's flank, wondering if the skin would feel as smooth and cool as the surface of the photograph. "Sure of that, sir?"

Cowley shot him a hard look over his glasses, and Bodie squelched further comment with an effort. 

"So what does CI5 want with Raymond Doyle?" 

"There's reason to believe he's the go-between for these two." Cowley pushed another two pictures, both black and white surveillance shots, across the desk. "Josef Kish." He tapped the one on the left. "Ostensibly a cultural attaché to the Hungarian embassy." Kish was a short muscular blond in a beautifully cut suit that was obviously not the product of an Iron Curtain country. "The other is Halton Sanders. A chemist, employed by a firm with government contracts. He enjoys an exceptionally high security clearance."

Bodie made a face. "Gas or germs?"

"Exceptionally high, Bodie. Take it as you will. In the past three months, material Sanders has access to has surfaced in the Soviet block. The only link between Saunders and anyone with Soviet connections is Doyle. Saunders and Kish both seem to have a fondness for his company, though quite conspicuously never at the same time."

"Kish _is_ a cultural attaché," Bodie said, unable to resist an opportunity to needle. "Not surprising he'd be interested in the cutting edge of the theater world."

"And in other things which he cannot easily partake of behind the Iron Curtain." 

"Dodgy clubs in Soho and discreet encounters in the bushes in Regent's Park?"

Cowley sighed. "Tasteful clubs in Kensington and indiscreet encounters at some of the more unconventional stately homes. Kish is at once so circumspect and so obvious one can only conclude he's acting with his government's approval. It's Sanders, poor devil, whose predilections will put him in the dock."

"Poor devil?" Bodie ran his finger over Doyle's picture once more. "With this keeping warm for him?"

"There are times when it would seem that the government makes laws specifically designed to drive otherwise good people to distraction," Cowley said sharply. "But I have to deal with a security risk, not a moral one." 

"Then arrest Saunders." Bodie shrugged. "He doesn't look like the type who'll swallow cyanide for the cause." 

"On what grounds? Kish and Sanders aren't lurking in dark alleys passing envelopes back and forth. Outside of the fact that both regularly cross paths with Doyle, there's no evidence, there's not even a pattern. Sanders has never displayed any interest in politics in his life, not even the dabbling with the left so many youngsters do while at university. Right now, I couldn't accuse any of those three of crossing the road against the light and make it stick."

"So my job is—"

"Gain Doyle's confidence." Cowley's mouth twisted slightly at the euphemism. "Find out how the exchanges are made. Better yet, catch him with something in hand."

"So I'm the lucky bloke who gets to search his drawers. Might take a while before he's willing to trust me with his access to the golden goose." Bodie allowed himself a smirk.

"Aye, this will take time, time and subtlety. We'll be taking steps to minimize the damage at Sanders' end, but I want them all, Bodie. All. Diplomatic immunity or no, Kish has to go. We cannot tolerate him using men like Doyle as bait. If nothing else, we'll have the satisfaction of making him useless anywhere in the West."

Bodie's eyes were drawn back to the picture. Doyle's mouth turned up slightly at the corners, the lush lips forming a not-quite smile that reminded him of the Mona Lisa. Eyes only slightly less green than the twist of cloth around his hips were looking into the middle distance with a gaze at once wistful and slightly mocking.

If he looked like that in bed, he would be irresistible.

Bodie shook himself slightly. The old man's office was not the place to get distracted by those kinds of thoughts.

"I'll need expense money," he said slowly, his eyes still on the photograph as he tried to sort through the impressions the image gave him. "But not packets of it. If Kish is already paying him off, I'll have to have something different."

"Drugs?" Cowley's voice was acid with distaste.

Bodie shook his head. "Common as muck in the circles he moves in, and if he wants them he'll have them already. No, I need something to appeal to his sense of adventure."

"I should imagine playing at espionage provides enough of that." 

"That's something he has to hide. I need to be something he can flaunt."

"I hope you know what you're doing, laddie." Cowley pushed three folders and the pictures over to him. "Don't underestimate Doyle. A man who'll betray his country, even if it's only for money, has more than just a taste for danger."

Bodie rose and gathered up the folders. "Mata Bodie it is, sir."

***

Bodie's first night at the theater was as bad as he'd feared. The Tivoli company might have promoted themselves as avant-garde but before the first act was half over, he'd come to the conclusion that the billing was a desperate ruse to try to camouflage some extremely bad acting. The men in the cast had two styles of delivery, declaiming or mumbling, while the women went for simpering and shrieking. The actresses playing Titania and Hero both forgot their lines regularly, and not just the odd word or two, but entire speeches, which left the others in their scenes floundering to recover.

Doyle's acting wasn't any better than the rest—he was one of the declaimers—but inside of five minutes Bodie realized it didn't matter. There was a raw carnal grace in every move Doyle made, a sensuality that was as tangible and pervasive as the dust motes floating through the spotlights. He could turn even the most banal line of dialog into a personal invitation to intimacy just by the way he moved his shoulders or turned his head. Most of the women in the theater, and a fair number of the men, didn't take their eyes off him while he was on stage.

By the end of the second act, Bodie had a strange ache just above his diaphragm, as if he'd been holding his breath for too long.

***

"I work for CI5."

Bodie hadn't meant to say the words that baldly, though it seemed as if he'd been carrying the weight of them around on his tongue for weeks. Now that they were out, what he mainly felt was an overwhelming sense of relief. Except for his respect for Cowley, he would have said them the first time he'd woken in Doyle's bed. 

Doyle's fingers froze where they were caressing his hair.

"So that 'cashiered from the army for conduct unbecoming' story was a load of cobblers?" Doyle wasn't a good enough actor to make the question sound as light and derisive as he obviously wanted to. 

"'fraid so." Bodie tried to match the lightness. "Thought it would make me sound interesting enough to get your attention."

With a quick heave, Doyle flipped them over so he was above Bodie, his hands pinning Bodie's arms to the bed. In the bedroom's muted light, his eyes were an odd silvery shade, quite unlike their usual green. Bodie could feel the tension in him, like something alive readying itself to pounce. He wanted to put his arms around Doyle, not sure if the urge was to comfort Doyle or himself, but instinct made him relax and stay motionless.

"And since even my acting isn't bad enough to qualify as a crime . . . " Doyle's voice trailed off. His hands tightened on Bodie's arms. "Who knows, and what do they know?"

"The controller knows everything." Bodie forced himself to lie perfectly still as Doyle's fingers bit to the bone. "It's only a question of time until he decides to round you all up."

"You haven't found anything," Doyle said with certainty.

"No," Bodie agreed. "But then I haven't looked."

For a long moment Doyle looked down at him, and then slowly let his hands fall away and sat up.

"What do you want?" 

"For you not to spend the rest of your life in jail." 

"Bodie, I—" Doyle broke off, his shoulders hunched for a moment, one hand covering his eyes. Then he laughed, an ugly grating sound. When he looked up, his eyes were dry and there was a softly twisted smile on his face. "I did it for money and for kicks. The same reasons I did you. I don't give a toss about the politics one way or the other."

"Any more than you do about me." To his own surprise, Bodie's voice was completely steady.

Doyle shrugged. "Sorry, mate. You're a nice guy and a great fuck, but—" He shrugged again. "Still don't want to see me in jail?"

Bodie shook his head.

***

There were some rooms in the basement of CI5 that even seasoned agents felt a chill on passing. Most girded themselves to enter in the same way they would before walking into the morgue, and left with the same mixed feelings of nauseated relief and furious shame.

George Cowley showed none of those emotions, but his steps slowed as he reached the bottom of the stairs and approached the door. He had found himself more than once through the night thinking of Barry Martin, and wondering just what flaw in his judgment had led him to make the same mistake twice. The recriminations brought by those memories had shredded his temper. Blurred as it was, his reflection in the one-way window showed his mouth as a savage white line, and his eyes were grey as granite.

His signal brought Stuart to the door with the speed of a man given a reprieve from observing an autopsy. The agent's dark aquiline face was ideal for concealing emotions, but the way he fumbled closing the door gave him away.

"I'll take over now, Stuart." The quickly hidden flash of relief on Stuart's face told him it was the correct decision. As heavily as his duty weighed on him, Cowley's definition of honour would not allow him to order one of his men to do something he was unwilling to tackle himself. Only the knowledge of what had been so narrowly averted gave him any comfort.

"Anything at all?" In another man, that tone of voice might have been simply querulous, but Stuart tensed as if Cowley had bellowed. 

"Sorry, sir, not a word." Stuart shook his head. "He's a tough bastard, and of course he knows all our tricks." 

"It's past the point of mattering now. Word just came from Heathrow. Kish was on a plane to Budapest half an hour ago."

"We just let him go?" Stuart didn't even try to hide his outrage.

"He was accompanied to the airport by the ambassador himself. The Foreign Office had already been notified that if any effort were made to inconvenience His Excellency there would be repercussions at the highest levels. "

"But sir—"

"I might have been more inclined to press the point if we hadn't also been informed that Halton Sanders was found dead at his home this morning."

"Cleaning house before they ran? Bastards."

"Apparently Sanders drowned in his swimming pool." Cowley chuckled grimly. "Though I suspect the verdict would still read suicide if there'd been six bullets in his back. Everyone from the minister on down is so damn grateful nothing has emerged that could cause a scandal they're willing to overlook what actually has happened."

"And that bastard Doyle?" Stuart's voice was thick with loathing.

Cowley shook his head. "Smoke in the wind. Though I'll wager that's Bodie's doing."

Stuart faltered for a moment. "What about Bodie?"

Cowley's face set even more severely. "I'll take over now," he repeated.

"Sir—"

"I'll deal with him, Stuart. It's time to clean my own doorstep." As he turned to the door, the memory of Barry Martin ambushed him again, and the weight on his shoulders seemed to double. 

"I'll wait for you, sir." 

"You've work to do, man. Go do it. "

"Sir." Stuart settled his back against the wall and didn't move. 

Cowley shot him a glare but said nothing further. Drawing one deep breath, willing his hand to be steady, he opened the interrogation room door.

At first glance, it could have been any of a number of times when Bodie had been one of the agents acting as interrogator, and Cowley felt a renewed flush he could not identify as anger or regret. Bodie was leaning back in one of the wooden chairs at the table, chin down as if he'd dozed off, legs stretched out in front of him, his plain dark trousers and poloneck looking undisturbed. It was only when Cowley stepped into the bright circle beneath the overhead bulb that he could see the signs of hard use. The knuckles on Bodie's right hand were raw, and his right wrist was blue and swollen under the handcuff keeping him tethered to the chair. The left side of his face was one massive bruise, the eye puffed shut and a gash on his mouth scabbed with dried blood. Bodie's posture looked relaxed, but Cowley could see the betraying tremble in his left arm as it rested across his torso. Stuart, Cowley recalled, had a particular skill for finding sensitive spots in the ribcage.

"Bodie."

Bodie's right eye opened slowly, lashes drifting up to reveal foggy dark blue. Recognition came slowly, and when it did, Cowley was gratified to see his gaze drop.

"Sir." Bodie made an effort to straighten up, only to flinch with pain and subside. A shadow of his normal grin crossed his face. "Apologies for not getting up." He licked at the blood on his lip.

Despite everything, that trace of Bodie's old gallant spirit made Cowley's heart twist. "Treating you well, 3.7?" He took refuge in mockery.

"Best the house has to offer. I never knew how much Stuart didn't like me."

"Considering you've run this operation completely into the ground you can hardly expect anything else." Cowley forcibly reigned in his anger. "Betrayal, Bodie. It leaves a nasty taste."

Bodie said nothing, his eye drifting shut again, but not before Cowley noted the shame and guilt there. Seeing them made Cowley decide instantly on a change in tactics.

"It doesn't have to be like this, laddie." He softened his voice. "God knows this isn't what I want for you."

Bodie cocked a weary brow. 

"Tell me where Doyle is, and you can go. Out of England, and God help you if I ever set eyes on you again, but you'll have your freedom, for what it's worth."

Bodie drew a short shuddering breath, and held himself very still. Shook his head. "Can't do it."

"We'll get it out of you eventually, you know that. You're a hard man, Bodie, but nobody can hold out forever."

"Every minute I can buy him is one to the good." Bodie's eye opened again, meeting Cowley's without a flinch. "If I buy him enough, it'll be too late even when I do talk."

Fury wiping out all trace of empathy, Cowley leaned over and dug his fist into the short dark hair, shaking Bodie violently enough to make him cry out. "Why? For God's sake man, why?"

Bodie said nothing.

"Money?"

"No!" The hurt on Bodie's face looked genuine. "You know I've never taken a penny, no matter who offered."

"Then what? What could he give you to make you betray us?"

Bodie was silent for so long that Cowley thought he wouldn't answer at all. Then he looked up and said hesitantly, "Love him, I suppose."

"Love?" The absurdity of it stopped Cowley in his tracks.

"Yeah, love." The ghost of a smile had the blood welling from his lip once more. "Didn't think I had it in me, did you, sir?"

"Even knowing he's left you high and dry?"

Another faint smile. "Wasn't me in here, it'd be him. Couldn't let you get your hands on him, could I?" He licked at the gash on his lip again. "I'm used to it, see? I can take it." 

Cowley closed his eyes for a moment. 

"I trusted you, Bodie," he said quietly. "I've had other agents as competent, as capable, but you're one of the ones I believed I could count on through anything."

Bodie straightened his shoulders. The look he gave Cowley was filled with misery, but did not waver. "Sorry, sir. No excuse."

The room's soundproofing was good enough that Stuart, waiting in the corridor, did not hear the gunshot. 

 

**II**

"Elfies!" Eduardo hissed the word between his teeth, just loudly enough to carry. 

Bodie glanced to the right and swore under his breath. The fence surrounding the oil complex was nearly ten feet high, and topped with rolls of razor wire. There were light towers at regular intervals along the perimeter and passing just beneath the nearest one were six guards, five of them armed with machine pistols.

Six guards who should have been on the other side of the compound.

Bodie swore again and flattened closer to the ground, trying to dig himself in among the sharp spikes of dry grass. The earth against his face reeked of raw oil, and there was a dank greasy feel to it under his fingers. His squad had taken over an hour getting themselves up to the fence and cutting a hole, and just about the same length of time crawling from shadow to shadow to get into their positions near the pumping station. He knew they were as close to invisible as made no difference, faces darkened, even the gun barrels smeared with dirt in case any stray beam of light caused a glint. Even so, he felt exposed and vulnerable as a bug on a crystal platter. 

He hadn't been comfortable with this mission from the beginning. The rebels had played on Krivas' vanity and convinced him attacking the main transfer station would have more impact than some simple sabotage on the pipeline to the coast. Bodie's objections had been dismissed. He was beginning to think that had been a fatal error. The pipeline ran several hundred kilometers through sparsely inhabited countryside; despite the number of government troops on patrol, it was impossible to secure an area of that size completely. Though the tank farm looked tempting, Bodie had always seen it as a giant, well-baited mousetrap. That the patrol schedule had changed on this particular night was just another sign this mission was jinxed.

The guards were closer now, and Bodie saw that only five of them were locals. At the head of the group strode a slim white man in jeans, curly hair glinting amber and copper as he passed into another pool of light. Unlike the guards, he was armed with a handgun; also unlike them, he carried his weapon as if it were second nature to him.

As far as Bodie was concerned, this was the final straw. If ELF had brought in a white professional to run their security here, then Krivas' plan was fucked. They had to get out fast, cut and run as quickly and quietly as possible. To hell with the money, to hell with Krivas or Frenchy sneering about him losing his nerve. There would be other opportunities to hit the pipeline, but tonight was definitely a lost cause.

Bodie reached out to touch Eduardo, and signal him back. Before his hand connected with the other man's shoulder, there was a brisk rattle of gunfire from the far side of the compound. Even above the constant muted bass roar of the tank farm machinery, there was no mistaking it. Shouts rose in sharp counterpoint, then more gunfire and two small explosions. Dark shapes were suddenly running everywhere, shouting, gesturing, a few firing aimlessly into the air.

Fuckfuckfuck! Bodie burrowed even deeper into the grass. Matt had either been spotted and panicked or had badly miscalculated when planting the explosives. Getting stuck in the middle of the blast zone wasn't part of Bodie's plan, nor was being fried if one of those random shots sent a pressurized tank skyward.

Beside him, Eduardo twitched convulsively and Bodie grabbed his arm. He could feel the tremors running under the other man's skin like little electric shocks. Bodie muttered something calming, willing Eduardo not to panic. For a moment he wished fiercely for a partner he could really communicate with, instead of having practically no common language except guns and fucking. He increased the pressure of his hold, hoping to get the message across. 

The instant the approaching guards headed off to join the firefight, they'd have to make a headlong sprint for the hole in the fence, and hope to hell everybody would keep looking in the wrong direction.

To his dismay, instead of joining in the general confusion, the curly haired man threw up his hands and brought the group to a halt. 

"Arretez-la!" he yelled. _Stop_. Then another string of French Bodie couldn't interpret. Just their luck Goldilocks over there could actually communicate with the locals.

The guards behind Goldilocks slowly fanned out, their guns pointing, not out at the dark beyond the fence, but inward. Eduardo's tremors became shudders, and Bodie steeled himself to utter stillness, keeping his breathing shallow and long. Even now, they had a chance. The guards weren't carrying lights, relying entirely on the backwash from the towers. Unless one of them tripped over him, they wouldn't be able to spot him. All he and Eduardo had to do was keep quiet and wait it out.

Goldilocks might be smart, but he couldn't read minds. Couldn't see in the dark.

The chaos on the other side of the compound increased as a larger blast shook the air. The guards jumped, gesturing and calling out, but Goldilocks had them on a tight rein. They kept formation, moving steadily closer to where Bodie and Eduardo huddled in the grass, but at enough of an angle it began to look as if they'd pass by a few feet to the right. Bodie was just starting to convince himself there was a chance they'd be missed when Eduardo broke. Wrenching himself out of Bodie's hold, he scrabbled across the grass on hands and knees, screaming something in his own language. He was still shrieking when a spray of bullets cut him nearly in half.

Bodie rolled to his feet and ran.

Over the sound of his own panting he could hear cursing behind him in several languages, most loudly with a definite British accent that had to be Goldilocks. When the shooting started, he didn't even break stride. Tucking his head down, he charged for the only possible shelter in a crazy zig-zagging path that took him right into the heart of the tank farm. Everything now was down to two chances: that Goldilocks had enough control over his men to stop them from firing indiscriminately at the tanks, and that there was enough room to play hide and seek in dark corners until he could make a break for the fence. 

Despite the enthusiasm in the gunfire, none of the bullets came close, and Bodie spared a moment of gratitude for a company that clearly didn't trust the locals enough to teach them to shoot properly. Behind him, he could hear Goldilocks yelling again, and the shooting cut off abruptly, except for the distinctive flat crack of a Walther. Three shots, one of which whipped so closely past Bodie it tugged on his sleeve. 

_Oh shit._

Goldilocks was a marksman, and he trusted his aim enough to shoot at a running man, at night, in the middle of God alone knew how many million barrels of oil. Bodie put on a desperate burst of speed and hurled himself behind the nearest tank just as another bullet pinged sharply on the metal where his head had been an instant before.

Bodie clamped a hand over his mouth to quiet his breathing, but he could hear neither a sharp hiss of air nor a sound of liquid bubbles. The bullet hadn't breached the tank.

Despite shaking legs and an almost queasy need to catch his breath, he forced himself to keep running as far as the steel structure gave him shelter. When he reached the opposite side he dropped to his hands and knees, scuttled into the shadow of the machine housing, and from there crawled into the darkness behind the next tank in line.

Flat on his back in the dubious refuge, Bodie hastily inventoried his resources. It was not an encouraging list. Paolo and Eduardo had carried the C4, so that was all gone. He'd dropped his rifle when he'd started to run—and wouldn't Krivas give him hell for that—and while he still had plenty of ammunition, only one clip fit his handgun. The heavy-gauge wire cutters he'd used to breach the fence were still clipped to his belt.

A hard lump in one jacket pocket buoyed him momentarily, but it was only his cigarette case. Tub had put it up as stakes in a card game, and Bodie had been tickled when he'd taken the hand, only to find that instead of silver his winnings were cheap gilt that tarnished inside of a fortnight. Much like the merc's life, he thought: a lot of talk about big money when you got recruited, but nobody ever mentioned nights like these.

Slowly, Bodie got his breathing back under control. Looking up, he could see the reflection of flames and smoke against the night sky, but it didn't look as if whatever had blown had started a chain reaction in the tanks. The elfies fire control system was doing a bang-up job, and the chaos was dying down.

And that meant Bodie had to take his chances and get out.

Now.

He peered around the curve of the tank, searching for a path that would take him in the direction of the fence. What he saw made him swear and drop back to the ground. A group of native guards was crossing the open ground, dragging a couple of bodies along with them. In the harsh glare of the floodlights, they were easy to recognize. Matt and Paolo. Three more were carrying a limp and dripping bundle that had to be what was left of Eduardo.

When they all came together, Goldilocks strode over to them. Bodie couldn't hear what he was saying, but he gestured in the direction of the main gate, and pointed to the bodies. One of the guards started to argue, but Goldilocks cut him off with an impatient wave of one hand and what was clearly some rough language, judging by the way the guard flinched back. 

Bodie could only watch in horrified fury, cursing viciously under his breath as the guards carried what was left of his team to the main gate. Ropes went around their ankles, and the guards hauled with a will. Within moments the three bodies hung head-down from the metal gate-frame, blood still dripping sluggishly to pool in the dusty road underneath them.

A warning.

Word would spread through the bush like wildfire, and inside of a day or two everyone in the province would get the message. Nobody fucked with ELF.

Bodie lay back, feeling icy sweat break out all over his body as the stark reality sank in. The company had obviously brought Goldilocks in to put the fear of God into the rebels, and he wasn't arsing around at it. Government troops or private guards were hell on their own kind, but foreigners usually could buy their way out if they were captured. Goldilocks was changing the rules at a very bad time for the mercenaries working with the rebels.

And especially for Bodie.

Levering himself up, Bodie crept back into the shadows. There had to be another way out of this place. All he had to do was find it.

***

Two hours later, Bodie was in almost exactly the same place as he'd started, and as close to panic as he could ever remember. Tucked into the shelter of one of the giant valve assemblies, Bodie once more racked his brains for an escape plan, and once more came up short. So far, he'd managed to dodge the search parties, though it had been a near thing several times. He run and hidden, dodged and crawled, used every ounce of survival skill he'd learned in the bush. None of it had been enough to get him a clear path to the fence and safety. The best he'd managed was to keep them guessing.

He couldn't pull it off much longer though. For one thing, Goldilocks had organized his people well enough that Bodie was running out of places to hide. Even worse, Bodie could see a faint trace of grey on the horizon. Inside an hour the sun would be up, and without the cover of darkness he wouldn't last ten minutes. Several times in the night Bodie had considered ambushing one of the searching guards for his uniform and trying to pass himself off as en elfie, but he'd regretfully decided it wouldn't work. There simply weren't enough white men in the compound for a stranger to pass unnoticed.

Footsteps sounded on the other side of Bodie's hiding place, and he squirmed further down under the shelter of the valve assembly. Seconds later, Goldilocks and one of the locals rounded the corner and stopped directly above him.

Bodie held his breath.

In the indirect light, Goldilocks' hair formed a halo of auburn around his head, softening the vicious scarring where something had smashed in his right cheekbone. Goldilocks had to be one tough bugger to survive in the mercenary business, Bodie thought, with that cloud of curls and a lush mouth that looked made to suck cock. Despite his fear, Bodie felt a twinge of regret. If he'd had a partner like that, tough and smart and beautiful, someone he could trust to watch his back, would he have so casually signed on with Krivas?

Goldilocks said something to one of the guards, his voice a rasp of sandpaper over silk that sent a shiver along Bodie's nerves. Oh, yeah. When this was all over, he'd have to arrange a meeting with Goldilocks. Somewhere with a big soft bed and a lock on the door and a bottle of good scotch.

The guard responded, and Bodie strained to understand the dialect. Three something—hours, men, bombs? If he got out of this, he was going to learn the local lingo, and let the others laugh all they wanted.

An outburst of shouts in the distance had both the guard and Goldilocks moving off at a dead run. Bodie wriggled out from under the valves and stood up, an idea beginning to take shape. He needed a diversion, something big enough to throw the whole complex into a panic. The problem was, Goldilocks had his people so well disciplined the small C4 detonations earlier hadn't been enough to do the job. Nothing short of a tank explosion would fit the bill.

Bodie pulled the wire cutters from his belt and began working at the valve. At first it resisted the unorthodox tool—he wasn't even sure the valve was meant to be opened manually at all—but Bodie was strong and desperate. He strained against the unyielding mechanism, shoulder and arm muscles bulging with the effort, sweat running unheeded down his face. In the end the long-handled cutters gave him just enough extra leverage. He braced himself and straightened, adding the power of his thighs to arms and shoulders, and the valve gave with a grating squeal of metal grinding on metal. 

Bodie dropped, gasping with relief, and wiped his wet face on his shirt-tail. When he looked up, a steady trickle of oil was running from the valve, already forming a puddle beneath it. No more than three feet away a shallow ditch, probably formed by rain runoff, snaked its way past. If enough oil leaked out to fill that ditch, this mad plan might have a chance.

In the cinema, oil and petrol exploded with convenient ease at first sign of a flame. In real life, it took time for enough fumes to build up to even catch fire. Everything depended now on whether he'd get that much time. 

Bodie looked at the horizon again, trying to gauge how long till dawn, and then resolutely turned his back. He'd have time, or he wouldn't. He'd get out, or he'd die. After what he'd seen in the last few hours, there was no chance he'd risk falling into Goldilocks' hands alive. 

He moved on to the next tank.

The valve on this one yielded more easily, and the soft gurgling as the oil pattered onto the ground was music to Bodie's ears. 

They caught him at the fourth tank. 

It was another sticky valve, and his own harsh breathing covered up the noise of approaching footsteps until it was almost too late. Some sixth sense warned him at the last moment, and he threw himself sideways to the ground just as a rifle butt slammed against the valve housing where his head had been. Instinctively, Bodie lashed out with the wire cutters, and managed to deflect a second blow, but by then the guard was shouting for help at the top of his voice.

With nothing left to lose, Bodie shot him, and ran. What was left of his plan was simple: lose himself in the maze for a few more minutes, and then get back to the leaking tank to put his diversion in motion. But suddenly it seemed every passageway and intersection had a guard in place, yelling out and shooting in the air the moment they spotted him. While he'd been working, Goldilocks must have been busy too, pulling all his people into the search. There were some disciplined shooters in this lot, and Bodie was forced to fire again and again to keep them at bay. 

At some point he slammed his last clip into the gun, fear crawling tightly into his gut as he realized he was being herded toward open ground, forced to use up his scant ammunition stock and helpless to do anything about it. Short of a miracle, he would be finished in minutes.

Hoping like hell he was still going in the right direction, Bodie summoned his nerve for a dash between two tanks, and charged for a patch of shadow behind a pump house. He had almost reached it when a vicious blow took him in the calf. Stumbling, rolling, he barely managed to drag himself behind the tank before his leg gave out completely. He leaned panting against the warm metal, feeling blood just as warm run down into his boot. Though the bullet had passed through without catching bone, he was bleeding freely, and already beginning to feel shaky. Shock and pain combined with a night of running without rest or water would finish him fast.

He raised his gun, appalled by the effort it took. Before he could decide on his next move, brisk footsteps approached.

"You back there!"

Bodie froze, willing himself to silence.

"You might as well come out, sunshine." He recognized the voice as Goldilocks'. "I know you're wounded: I can see the blood trail from here. You've got nowhere left to go. And if we have to dig you out, my men might do worse than just shoot you."

Bodie took a frantic look around. His leg wouldn't hold him, even if there had been a clear path to run. Two bullets left.

No seventh cavalry coming over the hill this time.

For a long moment the desperate hope for survival battled with Bodie's bleak calculation of the odds. He fumbled through his pockets again in a last-ditch search for anything, any scrap that might give him a chance. Nothing but the battered cigarette case.

He ran his fingers lightly over the coolness of the metal, then decisively flicked open the catch. With hands that trembled only slightly, he pulled out a paper and spilled a line of tobacco along it. He took a little wry pride that his tongue was not too dry to seal the cylinder with one swipe. Bodie took a long deep drag, savouring the smoke settling into his lungs, and the healthy red glow as the end of the cigarette took light.

"You've got to the count of three!" Goldilocks sounded closer, and Bodie grinned. Impatience was always the big fault of the elfies. 

He pulled in more smoke and threw the gun into the open. 

"I'm coming out!"

"Slowly, with your hands in the air." 

Bodie's grin broadened, turned shark-feral. There were worse things to have as his last sight in life than that sweet cock-sucking mouth.

He stepped from behind the shelter, hands raised just to shoulder level, wishing he was only pretending to be unable to put weight on his bleeding leg.

Goldilocks was closer than Bodie had expected, his Walther rock-steady and aimed at Bodie's head.

"Right, then," Bodie said quickly. "I give up. Take me to your leader."

His eyes flicked down once to search the ground. His memory hadn't failed him. He was back at the first tank he'd sabotaged, and enough oil had leaked from the damaged valve that the pool beneath it had spilled over into the ditch. A shallow dark stream snaked its way past two more of the sabotaged tanks. If he could keep Goldilocks' eyes focused on him for just another few seconds, this might work.

"You're English," Goldilocks said, surprise colouring his voice.

"Liverpool Irish," Bodie replied. "And you?"

"Derby." This close, there was enough light to see that Goldilocks' eyes were the hazel end of green, and his mouth—

Oh, yeah. If there was a regret in these last few seconds it was about that mouth.

"Only a Liverpool supporter would be this crazy," Goldilocks said, shaking his head as he looked Bodie up and down.

"Cricket's more my game." Bodie raised the cigarette to his lips, returning the inspection.

Goldilocks glanced away, his eyes seeming to see something far different than the tank farm silhouetted against the African night. 

"You shouldn't have come here," he said gruffly. "This ain't the place for gentlemen."

There was something in his voice that made Bodie lean forward to catch his eyes. The expression he saw there— 

_Bugger it all, Goldilocks. Fate's a bitch for both of us. That big bed would have done us a treat._

With deep regret, Bodie said, "Never claimed to be one."

Without taking his eyes from the man facing him, Bodie took one last deep drag, and flicked the butt away. The little red spark spun lazily through the air and dropped neatly dead-centre into the pool of oil. 

For a moment nothing happened, and Bodie's heart sank. Then there was a soft _woosh_. Pale blue flame appeared above the surface of the oil and raced rapidly in all directions, spreading like a scattering school of fish before a predator. Bodie watched with approval as one particularly agile tongue of fire hissed into the trench and made its way directly toward the next storage tank and the open dripping valve.

Goldilocks half-turned to follow his gaze. "Shit!" He could see just as well as Bodie could what was about to happen.

"You mad bastard!" He whirled back to Bodie, took two running strides toward him.

The last thing Bodie saw was the wild halo of auburn curls back-lit by the eye-searing flame as the tank went up. Then the fist of God hammered them both into the burning mud.

**III**

It was only the first week of mating season and there were already six dead.

The mating urge came in the spring moon, at the same time the forest blossomed. Vast clouds of pollen drifted through the air, leaving mounds of yellow foam on ponds and streams, powdering every surface with pale gold. As they breathed in the fragrant dust, the elves grew restless, tempers even quicker to flair than normal. The males' sexual hunger peaked, driving them to hunt incessantly for relief and lash out at both rivals and potential mates. For females, the instinct to test the fitness of a prospective mate sometimes led to combat ferocity that rivaled any male's. Mating season was always bloody, males and females alike wounded and battered in the frenzy of lust and violence. Almost all carried life-long scars, and every season some died of their wounds. 

Under normal circumstances, Scots Pine would not have been concerned, but of the six dead, four were female, and that was unusual enough to trouble the Eldest-of-Grove. While a female in heat might be inclined to try a suitor's mettle to the limit, for males the urge to rut usually outweighed the instinct to kill. Female deaths _did_ happen, but not on this scale.

Four females dead. 

The Eldest-of-Grove looked down to the combat ground from the branch where he squatted, and snarled uneasily. Elves lived so much in the present that even he, oldest and wiliest survivor, had only a vague idea what the loss of four breeding females might mean for the grove over time. Instinct told him the grove was not in danger yet, but such a rate of loss could not be sustained through a whole season of rut, especially in a grove where so many were dioecious. Males were expendable: if need be, one male could provide pollen for a whole female cohort. But without enough females to bear the next season's fruit, a grove might fail. Groves could fail—Scots Pine had seen it happen twice in his lifetime—but both times it had been because so many had died in battle that there were not enough adults left alive to replenish the seedstock or ward the saplings.

The thought that his own grove might fail made him bare sharp canines in defiance. Scots Pine had held his place in the grove long enough that several generations had known no other Eldest. It was not something he would relinquish without a fight, not even to blind nature.

Even so, the idea of interfering in mating bouts never entered his consciousness. 

A scratching on the bark, not more than a bare whisper of sound, brought him alert. He rose to a half-crouch, unsheathing his claws. A moment later, young Black Maple appeared below him on the trunk. Their exchange of blows was more ritual than anything else—Maple didn't even fully expose his claws—and as soon as Scots Pine drew blood he sat back and let Maple display submission. 

"Another challenge, Eldest," the sapling said breathlessly as he climbed the rest of the way onto the limb.

"Who?"

"Blue Beech and Red-Osier Dogwood." Maple's eyes were glowing with excitement.

"Which female?"

The sapling shook his head vigourously. "Each other. Dogwood wants to fuck."

Scots Pine snarled. Little foresight, no conscience, only the most basic of instincts to drive him, yet he was dimly aware of a real sense of loss and regret. There was a word he had heard humans use— _vrend_ —and as much as he understood the concept, he thought that might be the state of things between Beech and Dogwood. They hunted together, stood back to back in battles with other groves, rutted together for pleasure during the infertile times.

In a dioecious grove, some males would rut males even though no fruit could result from the pollen exchange. During infertile seasons, such rutting was harmless. But in mating season, those urges between males often ended in death: No matter how strong their sexual hunger, males fighting males had no instinct to hold back as they would with females. Beech and Dogwood were two of the deadliest male fighters Scots Pine had ever seen. This was the first time they had challenged each other during a mating season, and the grove would probably lose them both. 

Maple started to scramble down the tree, looking for a better viewpoint, but Scots Pine stayed where he was, irritably slashing at the bark beside him with his claws. He wanted Beech and Dogwood to live, but could find no further place to take that thought. Elves lived in the present, and what was, was.

The members of the grove were gathering around the combat ground, silent and still except for the flickering of tongues and the occasional flash of claws as one drew too close to another. If they had been a similar group of humans, there would have banter, laughter, wagers made on the outcome of the match, opinions voiced. Elves had no interest in such things.

When Beech and Dogwood shouldered their way through the crowd, Scots Pine gave a low growl of approval mingled with dismay. Both males were in the prime of life and fully fertile, penises erect and seed sacks swollen. In height and reach and skill they were well matched. Beech was slightly larger and more heavily muscled, Dogwood a bit faster and more agile. Dogwood carried a mass of scars on his chest from a mating challenge several years before. It remained to be seen how much the old injury would hamper him. 

There were no formalities to a rut challenge: Beech was barely inside the circle of spectators when Dogwood charged him, claws extended and fangs bared. 

The fight was swift, brutal, utterly without mercy. Elves were faster than humans, and stronger, and possessed nothing like compassion or prudence to make them temper their blows. Unsheathed claws drew blood, punches and kicks were meant to break bones, and canines ripped away flesh. Within seconds, both Beech and Dogwood were dripping blood from slashes and bites. 

Dogwood ducked a powerful blow and made a sideways lunge that had Beech staggering slightly. Before he could recover, Dogwood was on Beech's back, pinning his arms and using his weight to drive the bigger male downward. With both of them off balance, Dogwood had the leverage to force Beech to his knees, head and shoulders bent toward the ground. His penis was fully erect and dripping, ready to penetrate and take. 

Up above, Scots Pine hummed loudly in approval at the swift ending to the fight. Neither Beech nor Dogwood was seriously injured, and once their first hunger had been eased, they would settle down to rut in peace.

With a roar, Beech ripped one arm out of Dogwood's hold and contorted his body violently, his head darting lightening-fast at Dogwood's groin. Dogwood howled and thrashed madly, slamming his fists repeatedly into Beech's jaw. The sound of bone cracking was audible even above Beech's muffled wet grunts.

Finally Beech fell back, spitting out scraps of bloody meat. Shrieking, Dogwood rolled across the ground, clutching at himself. All that was left of his penis and pollen sacs was ragged raw flesh. 

Snarling, Scots Pine clawed at the branch beneath him. A waste of good pollen, a waste of a good fighter. His eyes burned with rage as he looked down at Blue Beech.

Beech slowly clambered to his feet. His jaws were misshapen, his face and shoulders mangled and torn. Dogwood had gone quiet, curled up tightly on the ground, only soft growls and whimpers of pain escaping him now as he rocked back and forth. A pool of blood was spreading rapidly around him. Beech staggered in his direction, barely able to stay on his feet.

From above, Scots Pine saw Dogwood's body tense. Claws extended on the hand out of Beech's line of sight.

Perhaps because they had fought together so often, Beech spotted the trap at the last moment. As he faltered, Dogwood uncoiled, claws out for a vicious strike at the back of Beech's knees. Had the blow connected, Beech would have been hamstrung, helpless. As it was, only a desperate leap took him above Dogwood's claws. The effort sent him sprawling, barely out of Dogwood's reach.

As Beech tried to rise, Dogwood lurched at him, this time sure of a killing blow. The bloody ground betrayed him. His back foot slipped in the mud and he went down flailing. Before he could recover, Beech was on him, flipping Dogwood onto his back, claws poised to rip out his throat.

It was only from a vantage point like his that anyone could have seen it, and even so, Scots Pine could not have said for sure if he saw anything real. It looked as if Beech hesitated, a fraction of a heartbeat, no more, but long enough. Dogwood's left hand swept up, claws at full extension, and raked the length of Beech's torso from groin to chin, splitting him open like a soft fruit. The resulting fountain of blood drenched them both, and Beech collapsed face down into the dirt without a sound.

Dogwood slowly pushed himself up on one arm and then wavered to his knees, swaying as if storm-broken. Scots Pine's eye was ruthlessly assessing. His injuries might heal, given time, but even if he survived he would always be slow, weakened. Gelded and damaged as he was, Red-Osier Dogwood was no use to the grove. The Eldest prepared to leap from the tree and dispose of the crippled fighter himself, when suddenly Dogwood sank back to his haunches beside Beech's body. He stroked one hand along the gouged shoulders, gently touched the white cheek and fingered the gore-matted hair. Without a pause, he brought his claws up in a straight slash across his own throat. He'd already lost so much blood that there was no spray from the severed arteries, just a weak flow down over the scarred chest. Red-Osier Dogwood slid down to lie across Blue Beech's body, one hand still twined in the other male's hair.

A long sigh rippled through the spectators. 

Green Ash and Black Maple dragged the bodies away, to be dumped with the others far enough away from the grove not to attract predators. Someone else scuffed up the dirt in the clearing to mix the blood into the earth, so the ground would be available for the next challenge.

The grove went on.

**IV**

"Will Bodie, you come back here! Will!"

The sound of the front door slamming to was the only answer. Out on the drive, an engine growled and tyres spun, throwing a spatter of gravel, before the car accelerated off into the twilight.

Susan sank back into her chair, feeling her chest tighten as she looked at the carefully prepared table in front of her. She and Mrs. Norton had spent the morning polishing silver and washing the crystal. On her mother's monogrammed damask tablecloth waited a crackling-crisp roast of pork, cauliflower cheese, two glasses of red wine already poured. All Will's favourites and he hadn't touched a bite.

Three days off, he promised her. Not even on call, but real free time for the two of them. She'd had her hair done, and her nails, and spent the afternoon cooking, singing as she peeled potatoes, thinking about three whole days alone together.

Tears began to sting. For a moment she tried to stifle her sobs: her mother had taught her early that men didn't like women to make a fuss. Her crying bothered Will, even though it never actually stopped him from doing whatever he wanted. With him out of the house, she allowed herself to give in to her misery. 

Another call to duty.

Another dinner wasted.

Another night alone.

A sob caught in her throat as she looked over at the cake on the sideboard. Why had she bothered with hours of baking, slicing fruit and making buttercream? She laid her head down on her folded arms, wiping her wet cheeks on the sleeve of her new cashmere jumper. 

They had all warned her—her mother, her friends—everybody had warned her.

_"You don't know what sort of a life he's lived before coming back to England."_

_"No one knows anything about his people."_

_"There's no room in an agent's life for involvement."_

That had been George Cowley, so fatherly and sympathetic, but with something cool and measuring in his eyes even then. He'd told her to wait, to let Bodie come out of the field before asking for any commitment.

Even Doyle—

Susan scrubbed her hand over her eyes again, and sat up, straightening her shoulders. "Spilled milk, my girl," she told herself firmly. 

She went down the hall to the kitchen for her apron, and began reluctantly to put the food away. The pork could be eaten cold, the cauliflower warmed up again, the potatoes and carrots served up in a soup or stew. She'd have some friends round for coffee and the cake would be devoured to the last crumb.

But the slow leak of tears wouldn't stop, even as she lifted the pork from the serving plate and returned it to the roasting pan.

"Why can't he ever say no to them?" she whispered. Trying to ignore the inner voice that said this assignment would be longer than the last time, and the time before, she slammed the lid down on the roasting pan, and almost threw it back into the oven, feeling a mean little twinge of satisfaction at the metallic clattering.

"That'll do you!" 

A low murmuring sound seemed to answer her. Susan's head jerked up, and she looked around apprehensively.

"Will?" 

Silence.

Of course. He was gone. With Doyle.

Doyle. Always bloody Doyle, calling on the RT, coming round the house, sprawling in the kitchen or the lounge as if he had every right to be there. It wasn't enough that he worked with Will, sometimes for days on end. No, he had to come here, to her home, to take even more of the precious time she had so little of.

And Will encouraged it. _'Susie, let's have Doyle round for Sunday lunch.' 'Going to the match with Doyle on Saturday.' 'I've asked Ray in for Christmas—he's got nobody left in Derby now his mum's gone.'_

She'd even liked Doyle at first, thought him kind and amusing and comforting. She remembered watching him play Mastermind with Will, and thinking how nice it would be to have had brothers like that. 

Now every sight of Doyle meant more nights alone, more days waiting and wondering how long it would be before Will came back. Wondering if he _would_ come back.

The murmuring noise came again, louder this time. With a jerk, Susan let the vegetable platter drop to the table, heart pounding.

"Who's there?" Her voice was not much more than a weak bleat, and she clutched at the back of a chair for support.

_'Steady your breathing, Susan.'_ Dr. Ross had always sounded so calm and reassuring. _'Once you control your breathing you can control the fear.'_

With an effort, Susan drew in a deep breath, counted, let it out.

_'Very good. Again.'_

Another deep breath, and another, and the cold cramped feeling in her chest and stomach began to ease. She even summoned a wobbly smile. Of course there was nothing there. Dr. Ross had explained it all—

The murmur came again. This time it was definitely a voice, a voice she could almost recognize. The familiarity taunted her, bringing a rush of hot anger to mingle with the chill of fear. Without a conscious thought, she snatched up the carving knife from the table.

Knife held out in front of her, she crept through the kitchen and into the hall. Even though it wasn't yet dark outside, the house seemed full of shadows. She couldn't see the end of the hall, couldn't see what might be waiting there, just out of sight, waiting and watching and saying . . .

Her free hand fumbled for the light switch, and for a horrifying moment touched nothing but wallpaper. She lurched forward, slapping frantically at the wall, and sobbed in relief when the light finally came on.

The hall was empty and silent, the doors to the lounge and Will's office closed. 

"Where are you?" she croaked out.

This time the murmur formed words.

_"Susan. Su-u-san."_

With a shriek she clapped her hands over her ears, shaking her head. Knife forgotten on the floor, she stumbled and scrambled back into the dining room and dragged the door closed behind her.

_'Breathe deeply.'_ The comfort Susan usually took from remembering Dr. Ross was gone. _'You know there's nothing to be afraid of.'_

"Yes, there is," she whispered. "I don't know who it is, I don't know it, who are you, I know you . . ."

_"Su-u-u-san."_

"Shut up!"

Everything she'd tried to bottle up since Will left erupted. With a cry of fury, she swept the remaining plates and glasses from the table, then snatched up the bottle of Chianti from the sideboard and hurled it at the wall. The bottle exploded as it struck, the noise startling another scream from her. Red wine and bits of glass mingled with the broken dishes and potatoes and carrots scattered on the floor.

"Serves you right! Serves you right!" she chanted, stamping on the shards of glass and china and scraps of food over and over, grinding it all smaller and smaller, until a sticky crunchy paste covered the carpet. 

At some point she became aware that her calves were sore and her throat was raw. She was standing in . . . the dining room? The room seemed a shambles, but before she could grasp exactly why an enormous weariness swept over her. The feeling was so deep and compelling it sucked her under like an ocean wave. She looked blearily around at the mess, vaguely wondering if she should find the broom and dustpan, but too exhausted to make the effort.

Shaking with fatigue, she made her unsteady way into the hall and up the stairs to the bedroom, leaning heavily on the wall to keep herself upright. Her last recollection was falling toward the bed.

The next thing Susan was aware of were hands on her shoulders, and a voice calling her name, harsh and urgent.

"Susan! What's happened? Are you all right?"

Hands tugged at her shoulders, pulling at the covers she'd burrowed under. She clutched at them, wanting nothing but the shelter and darkness of the duvet and pillows around her.

"Susan!"

It was Will, she realized, and he sounded angry and frightened. Something was wrong, some memory just out of reach, and she clung to the pillows, unwilling to have Will bring it to the light. 

She heard a ripping sound as the duvet was wrenched away from her hold, and then Will's hands were back on her, pulling her upright, shaking her.

"Stop it," she moaned, slapping at his hands. "Leave me alone."

"Christ, what the hell happened? There's a knife in the hall, and the dining room looks like a massacre." Will's rant stopped on a sudden choked noise. "Oh, Christ, your feet—"

Will's hands vanished, and Susan gratefully fell back and buried her head in the duvet again. 

"Oh no, you don't." Will sounded frighteningly grim. "Let's get you up, there's a good girl."

This time he wouldn't let her go, despite her protests. He hauled her up out of the bed and plopped her into the armchair, setting her legs up on her little ottoman. With a dim sort of surprise, she saw that her feet were covered in scrapes and cuts and caked with dried blood and filth. She stared at them numbly while Will brought a basin of warm water and washed her and put ointment and plasters on the worst of the gashes. It was only when he took her eyebrow tweezers to pull some bits of glass from her left foot that she finally felt pain. The stinging was sharp, yet somehow unreal, as if her legs belonged to someone else entirely.

Will worked in silence, his face set harshly. Only when he was finished did he look up.

"When did you last take your tablets?"

"Will—"

"When?"

Susan wrung her hands. "You know they make me feel odd," she said sullenly. "And I've been so much better for months."

"Because you took your tablets." He rubbed his hands over his face and stood up, moving with a stiff weariness she'd never noticed before. When he came back, he had a glass of water and two pills in his hand.

"Take the damn things," he said fiercely, and she didn't dare argue. 

She sat, looking out the window with dull resentment while Will stripped off the dirty sheets and ruined duvet, and remade the bed. Already she could feel the drugs swimming in her blood, and she hated the fog they brought, the unsettling sense of her real self being submerged beneath a calm chemical sea.

"Right, then." Will's voice was too hearty. "Let's get you back to bed. We'll call Dr. Ross and let her have a look at you, shall we?"

"Will, please." She reached out for his hand, and he stepped back. Through the muddle in her mind she felt a pang of appalled grief as she saw him realize, too late, what he was doing, and reach for her. She flinched aside in her turn and flung herself into bed, dragging the covers up around her.

Susan waited, hoping, for what she wasn't quite sure, but there was nothing but the sound of the curtains being drawn and the bedroom door closing. She felt tears running down her cheeks again but couldn't summon up the energy to wipe them away.

At one point, she heard the kitchen door open, and Will swearing. She tracked the noises: the squeak as the pantry door opened, a scraping that might be the broom and dustpan, running water, the clatter of the dustbin lid. It all seemed very distant and too much trouble to think about. The false comfort of the pills submerged her pain and anger and finally her self.

She went to sleep.

When Susan woke, the bedroom was full of light. Her mouth was cottony, her head ached, and her legs felt on fire. Raising the covers carefully, she looked down in disbelief at the bandages wrapped around her feet. She reached down with one hesitant hand, unwilling to accept what her eyes told her until she felt gauze under her fingers.

What had happened yesterday? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember. Will had been called out on assignment, had to leave before tea and . . . someone had been . . . speaking to her?

A memory of a voice calling her name bobbed to the surface of her memory and sank again.

Slowly she swung her legs out of bed, flinching and crying out as she stood up. Her knees weakened, but she managed to hobble to the bathroom by supporting herself on the furniture. The woman she saw in the mirror frightened her even more than her injured feet. This pasty-faced, hollow-cheeked wreck with dull tangled hair couldn't have anything to do with Susan Grant.

_Susan._

Suddenly she realized she had the bathroom waste bin in her hands, poised to hurl it at the mirror. With a sob she dropped it, a sudden wave of nausea leaving her clinging to the basin, swallowing back the dry sour taste in her mouth. 

Moving slowly and carefully, never looking into the mirror, she washed her face and brushed her teeth and combed her hair. Back in the bedroom she hesitated in front of the wardrobe, unable to decide what to wear, avoiding the mirror on the dressing table. Trying to do her face without using a mirror proved impossible, and in the end she wiped all the misplaced lipstick and powder off again. She couldn't put on any of her shoes over the bandages, and that added to her feeling of disorientation. Why did they look like her shoes and not fit?

Eventually she gave up and padded into the hall in her dressing gown and carpet slippers. She could hear faint sounds coming from the dining room, and she made her cautious way down the stairs, hoping that Will would have an explanation.

Only it wasn't Will there, but Doyle, methodically stripping wallpaper. 

"Ray," she said, unable to keep the chagrin from her voice.

"Morning, Susan," he said, smiling that wide chip-toothed smile of his that always made her think of a wolf trying to be friendly. "There's coffee in the carafe there, and Bodie says to remind you to take your tablets."

She poured coffee and added milk. "Where's Will?"

"Gone to buy wallpaper." Doyle put down the sponge "Y'know, if you wanted the place redecorated, all you had to do was say. Bodie would have done it."

"Oh? When would he have had time?" 

The bitterness in her tone obviously startled Doyle. "Susan," he began carefully, "you knew when you married him what Bodie's life was like."

"I suppose I did," she sighed. "I just didn't know what mine would be like." Susan made a face as she took a sip of coffee. It tasted vile, and she put the cup down sharply on the sideboard, next to the remains of the cake, its icing glimmering with bits of broken glass She looked at it blankly. What on earth had possessed her to spend all that time baking?

"Here." Doyle was holding out the bottle of tablets. "Why don't you sit down and have your coffee while I finish this?

With a grimace she shook out one of the tablets, and held it in her palm. It felt . . . odd. Too heavy, and with a slick feeling to it that made her skin crawl.

She turned to Doyle to tell him, and out of the corner of her eye saw something about his face shift and change in that split second. But when she faced him, it was only Doyle, eyebrows slightly lifted in expectation.

"Something wrong?"

Susan shook her head. 

When Doyle picked up the sponge and turned back to the wall, she hobbled into the kitchen. She tossed the tablet into the sink and poured her coffee down after it.

**

Susan had always loved libraries. The calmness and order drew her, as well as the anticipation of finding a new book, the feeling that a world of wisdom and adventure waited just for her to reach out and find it. In the following weeks, Susan began to leave the house as soon as Will was out of sight in the mornings. She abandoned the housekeeping and cooking to Mrs. Norton, not much caring what, if anything, got done. It wasn't as if Will cared, or even was there to notice.

The reading room in the library was warm and quiet, but without the stillness that filled the house so much of the time. Librarians shelving books, students bustling in and out, quiet requests for assistance at the desk, all served as a soothing background hum that never quite drowned out the words she was always listening for. The smell of paper and ink wrapped comfortingly around her, as welcome as a blanket on a cool night. For the first time she was pleased that she hadn't been able to persuade Will to buy a larger house, one with its own library.

She read voraciously from morning till night, romances, histories, mysteries, fantasies, anything that her hand fell on. She'd always loved Peter Beagle and Tolkien; now she read The Hobbit and The Silmarillion over and over, repeating the elvish names under her breath like talismans. Sometimes she spent hours poring over glossy volumes of photographs or drawings, envisioning herself in other places, other times.

She took her bottle of tablets with her, and faithfully dropped a tablet down the loo every day precisely at noon. Her mind felt clearer, and a sense of calm expectancy slowly began to build in her. The disappointment that had been festering in her was no longer something hot and jagged and painful, but sweet and cool as silk.

Something was coming. Soon she would know what it all meant.

**

The revelation finally came, not with any great sound of trumpets or a messenger with banners flying, as she had almost come to believe would happen, but through a simple accident.

One day she forgot her handbag, and with no money for coffee had decided to pop home for a bite before going back to the library. There was a Capri she recognized as Doyle's car of choice parked at the kerb. For a moment she was tempted to simply walk past and go without lunch, but a whisper of sound brought her to a halt. She'd learned by now to listen, and followed the whisper to the kitchen door. Before she put her hand on the door, she slipped off her shoes and coat, so there would be nothing to clatter or jingle as she went inside.

They were in the lounge, Will on the sofa and Doyle perched on the ottoman facing him. There was whiskey on the coffee table, but neither was drinking. Their heads were so close together, Susan was grateful for all the practice she'd had recently in straining her ears.

Will sat head down, shoulders slumped. For the first time, she saw what he might look like as an old man, grey with loss and defeat.

"I don't know what to do, Ray." His voice sounded worn and fragile. "She won't see Kate Ross any more, she says I'm having an affair with her. Ross, of all people!" 

Doyle snorted, and then sniggered helplessly. "Christ, she must be—" he broke off abruptly. "Sorry, mate."

Will shrugged. "Might as well say it. Mad. She won't take her tablets—I caught her chucking them in the bog the other night. I never know when I come home what she'll have done. Mrs. Norton gave her notice—said it was like working with a ghost in the house. I took all the damn knives out of the kitchen last week, just to be safe."

"Ah, Bodie." Doyle reached out, gripping his shoulder.

"I'm getting scared to leave her alone," Will burst out. "But when I'm here . . . Christ, the things she says! She's at me all the time: I'm having an affair, there's somebody in the house, I'm putting things in her food, I'm . . ." 

His voice broke. He leaned forward further, covering his face with his hands. Doyle pulled him into an embrace, arms fiercely protective. Will's forehead dropped to Doyle's shoulder, and he shuddered violently.

A bolt of understanding shot through Susan so strongly she almost felt faint with nausea. 

I've been looking in the wrong places, she thought. How could I have been so stupid! He's not having an affair with that Ross cow. He's having an affair with Doyle!

Suddenly everything seemed to fall into place. All those calls to work that came at odd hours, the days and nights away, the way Will dragged Doyle into their house, into her life. He'd even used Dr. Ross as a blind to mislead her. 

All this time.

But how could Will be with her and with Doyle too? He wasn't one of those perverts. Before she'd . . . hurt herself? They'd been having a good sex life before. So what kind of a hold could Doyle have on him?

As if a sudden fog cleared, a drawing from one of the books she'd been perusing so eagerly came to mind. A tall slim figure, with pointed ears peeping from under auburn curls, cat- slanted green eyes looking out from the picture with a combination of menace and allure. Dangerously seductive, made all the more so by an unearthly sensual beauty.

It was only explanation. Doyle wasn't really a man at all. He was an elf. An elf who'd beglamoured and seduced her husband. An elf who'd somehow fooled everyone into seeing him as an ordinary man 

_"Susan."_ For the first time she heard approval in that whisper. _"Su-u-san."_

So now she knew.

**

Despite the almost frantic urgency her new understanding gave her, Susan knew she had to bide her time. The only way to save Will was to get him to help in his own rescue. He wouldn't believe her alone, she acknowledged bitterly, not with the web Doyle had been able to spin around him. 

But there was someone who could help her. Someone Will would believe.

She forced herself to wait until an evening later in the week when Will was home and they were sitting at supper. There wasn't much food in the fridge and she'd simply thrown together an omelet, too keyed up to try anything more elaborate. Not that it mattered; Will picked at his plate half-heartedly and then pushed it aside before she'd managed more than a few bites. It suddenly struck her how gaunt his face had become, and she felt heartened. Whatever the Doyle-elf was doing was hurting him, and at some level, he must realise it. 

The knowledge gave her the courage to speak up.

"Will, I'd like to come in with you tomorrow and speak to Mr. Cowley." 

"See Cowley?" Will's sounded incredibly weary, and he didn't look up from the plate. "What for?"

Now that the moment was here, the words came easily.

"We have to tell him about Doyle. He'll know what to do."

"I'm not following, love. What do we need to tell Cowley about Doyle?"

"Doyle's not real."

Now he looked up. "What d'you mean, not real?" Will demanded. "Seen him stuffing himself at the dinner table often enough, haven't you? All that roast lamb and trifle went somewhere."

Susan shook her head impatiently. "He's not Ray Doyle."

"Then who is he?'

"He's an elf."

"An elf." Will repeated the word slowly. "Ray. Doyle. My partner. An elf. Susan, are you listening to yourself?"

"Don't you see, it's the only thing that makes sense!" She reached across the table and gripped his arm desperately. "He's seduced you, convinced you you need to be with him, go with him all the time, instead of staying here with me. He's beglamoured you so you can't see what he's really doing."

"Will you get hold of yourself! Ray Doyle is not a bloody elf!"

"Maybe he wasn't when you first met him. Maybe the elf killed the real Doyle and took his place. It doesn't matter. What's important is that now we know, we can do something. Mr. Cowley can help us, you'll see. He's so clever about managing difficult things. We can get you away from him . . . "

Her voice trailed off as Will tore his arm from her grip and pushed away from the table so violently his chair crashed to the floor. He looked down at her for a moment, mouth working, and almost ran for the door. She crept after him in time to hear the sound of the telephone in the lounge.

"Hello. It's 3.7. I need to speak to Dr. Ross. Yes, it's bloody urgent. My wife has lost her fucking mind."

Without even thinking about it, Susan continued on down the hall. As she passed through the kitchen, she caught up her handbag and coat. She closed the kitchen door very quietly, and then darted across the lawn to the back of the garden. For a moment the wooden back gate resisted her, and then she was free in the lane.

She paused there, under the overhang of the neighbour's apple trees, wondering which way to go.

_"Su-u-san."_

The voice came from the shadow beside her. She didn't look around.

"Where do I go?"

_"Susan."_

Vindication.

She ran down the lane toward the bus stop at the main road.

**

In the end, it was simple. She'd been afraid that, once having got his hooks into Will, the elf-thing masquerading as Doyle would be unbeatable. But the books she'd read had given her all the advice she needed. A barrow in a lane off the Portobello Road supplied the rest.

She waited in the car park at CI5 headquarters, tucked out of sight between an old Escort and the brick wall. The Doyle-elf had persuaded Will this was his true home, so sooner or later, they would both be there. 

They'd come and she'd prove to Will what it really was and then he would come home with her and everything would be all right.

She had to wait all night, shivering against the damp stone, fingers cramping around the talisman in her handbag, and nearly got caught when a whole group of agents came out, talking and laughing and milling around before getting into cars and driving off in various directions. She wondered how many of _them_ were elves too, trapping their partners into bondage. Perhaps, she thought, it was a good thing she hadn't gone to Cowley after all. He might still be human, but then again, he might not.

Better not to take the risk.

It was mid-morning before they came out of the building. She watched for a moment, drinking in the sight of Will in his black leather jacket and dark trousers. Still so handsome, despite the damage the Doyle-elf had done. 

Soon he'd be all hers again.

She slid her hand inside her bag, feeling for the reassuring weight to give herself courage. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself shakily out of hiding and went to them.

Unsurprisingly, the Doyle-elf noticed her first. It knew she was a danger. It caught Will's arm, said something quietly. 

Will whirled to face her, an expression of mixed relief and fury on his face.

"Susan! Where the hell have you been?" he bellowed and ran to her, catching her by the arms. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, clinging to his right arm and to her handbag. "I didn't mean to worry you. I was so upset."

"Upset?" His face twisted. "My God, you're going in to see Kate right now if I have to drag you."

"Yes, Will," she murmured meekly. Only a few more seconds . . .

The Doyle-elf came up on her other side, a tentative smile on its face. "Susan," it said. "We've been worried sick—"

She pulled her talisman from her handbag and struck.

At the last moment the Doyle-elf's uncanny power almost saved it; perhaps it saw or smelled something, or even read her mind. It jerked back with a yell of protest. If Will hadn't been standing so close, it might have got clear, but there was no place for it to go. Susan drove the knife into its stomach and jerked upward with both hands. The Doyle-elf made a hoarse choked noise and staggered sideways, lashing out at her with one arm and knocking her to her knees.

"Bodie," it gasped. "Bodie." Blood poured out over its hands as it clutched at the gash.

"Ray!" Will's scream of horror tore the air. He dove towards the Doyle-elf, caught it as it buckled and fell to the tarmac.

"What have you done, you mad bitch! " 

He knelt over the Doyle-elf's body, desperately shoving its jacket into a ball of fabric and pressing hard on the wound. Even Susan's inexperienced eyes could tell it was no use. Already the thing's eyes were glazing over, its limbs going slack.

Susan pushed herself up, ignoring the bruises and cuts from her fall. 

"Will, Will. It's all right. I told you he wasn't real," Susan crooned. She held the blood-smeared knife out before his horrified eyes. "See? The fae can only be killed with cold iron."

**V**

"They said _what_?" Doyle stopped so abruptly that Bodie would have run him down if he hadn't stepped smartly to one side.

"An elf." Bodie grinned smugly.

"Jesus!" Doyle rolled his eyes to the heavens. "I mean, I ask you!" He swept his hand down, indicating tweed jacket, lemon t-shirt, jeans and trainers. "Do you see anything here that says 'elf' to you?"

Bodie ostentatiously lifted a handful of grey curls to peer at Doyle's right ear, neatly avoiding the out-thrust elbow, and ducked away from the follow-up backhand with a chuckle.

"Bastard." Doyle's grumble held an undertone of laughter. 

"Must be the green eyes," Bodie said.

"They're hazel," Doyle said in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Of course. My mistake. Greenish hazel." Laughing, Bodie took two steps backward and whipped around the corner, sprinting toward the controller's office with Doyle in hot pursuit.

"Don't even try hiding behind Lucy," he panted.

Lucy, enthroned in a workstation that always reminded Bodie of the bridge of the Enterprise, was no source of refuge on this particular day. She was holding up a copy of the _Daily Sun_ , a hint of a smile on her normally grave face.

"Good morning, sirs. May I say, I don't believe the opposition had this in mind when they suggested it might be time for CI5 to be a bit more forthcoming." Her smile grew into a dry chuckle at the shared look of outrage on her bosses' faces.

Doyle growled and reached for the paper, but Bodie beat him to it, taking advantage of Lucy's laughter to twitch the paper from her hand and dance across the room out of Doyle's reach.

When he opened the paper, Bodie couldn't help a howl of laughter himself. Half the second page was taken up with a colour picture of Doyle, hair awry, his jacket in disarray, with a tie trailing precariously from one pocket. A police constable had him firmly by the arm and, judging by the look on his face, had just been subjected to some highly pointed Doyle invective. The headline blared out:

"CI5 CONTROLLER COMPROMISED?"

Holding the paper out of Doyle's reach, Bodie began to read, raising his voice in the affected chav accent he knew drove Doyle spare,

"Raymond Doyle, looking like a superannuated elf, is escorted from the Eel and Anchor pub by two police constables following a brawl in which several people were injured. Witnesses report Doyle (64), one of the controllers of the secretive Criminal Intelligence branch, used his specialized combat training on civilians during the struggle. The Eel and Anchor is well known as a particular sort of club—" 

"Particular!" Doyle sputtered in outrage. "They sell beer and eel pies, for God's sake! When did that become _particular_?"

"Particular," Bodie continued firmly, wiggling his eyebrows. "There have long been unconfirmed rumours of Doyle's unusual proclivities, especially given his reported long-standing 'very close friendship'," Bodie waggled his fingers in the air, "with another CI5 stalwart, director W. A. P. Bodie (63). It may be time for the question to be raised in Parliament: is this the sort of man Britain wants in charge of an organization as inherently autocratic as CI5?"

"Bloody hell!" Doyle swore and kicked out at the waste bin, only catching himself at Lucy's pointed throat-clearing. "Proclivities? Particular? That sounds like it was written by my grandmother's swooning maiden aunt. What century are they living in? This country's had civil partnerships since 2004!"

"I wouldn't say 'civil' is the word I'd use for our partnership," Bodie said with a leer. "Been sure the neighbours would have the law on us once or twice."

"Fine help you are," Doyle snarled. 

"Look on the bright side, sir." Lucy had recovered her composure. "A few years ago they would have said you were tired and emotional."

"That was for being pissed," Bodie said. "I think for queers it was confirmed bachelor.

"Anyway, Ray, you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I don't think the minister cares if you look like an elf or an orc, and seeing she's known we live together since she was shadow minister, that's not going to worry her either. It's the idea of the controllers of CI5 getting into pub brawls at our age that'll get the wind up."

Doyle sighed and ran his hands over his face. "We stopped off for a pint. One pint. Quiet little place, nobody recognized us, chance to have a drink in peace. Next thing some bastard with a skinfull starts pushing a girl around—"

"He wasn't just pushing her," Bodie protested. "He had her arm up behind her back, could have popped her shoulder the way he was twisting it."

"Yeah, and you had to play Sir Galahad, rushing to the rescue."

Bodie raised one eyebrow. "While you, being the model of a proper civil servant, took on his two mates."

"Couldn't let you have all the fun, could I? Besides, might take some doing, explaining to the minister why I let my co-controller get his head bashed in with a chair." Doyle shot his partner a glare. "Which begs the question of why _I_ am the one splashed all over the tabloids, when _you_ started it."

Bodie smiled smugly. "Because I had the sense to nip out the back door with all the other riff-raff, instead of hanging about trying to explain to the coppers."

"Should've done my civic duty and turned you in as a public nuisance." 

Bodie slung an arm over Doyle's shoulder. "And be deprived of your partner's unusual proclivities while he languishes in durance vile?"

"Bodie!" Doyle's cheeks flushed pink, and he darted a glance at Lucy. She was looking fixedly at her computer screen, only a slight twitch to her mouth hinting at amusement.

"C'mon, Ray, lighten up," Bodie urged. "Three days wonder, if that, and then everybody will get back to bashing us as fascist violators of civil rights."

Doyle gave the newspaper one final look of disgust and crumpled it up. "Well, what's done is done. We might as well get on with suppressing free speech and victimising minorities while waiting to see if the axe is going to fall."

"That's the spirit!" Bodie said. "So, Lucy, what's on our plate today?"

"I've uploaded your appointments for the day to your calendars. Mr. Bodie, you're debriefing 4.8 and 7.12 this morning, at—" she looked at her watch "—ten minutes ago. It's all right; I sent them down for a cup of tea, and told them to come back in half an hour. The final report on the al-Hamadhi case has to be finished for presentation to the parliamentary secretary no later than this afternoon, and I've taken the liberty of proof-reading it and removing the profanity. Mr. Doyle, the budget committee meeting has been postponed until Friday next, so your day is relatively free."

"You've got things well in hand here." Bodie grinned at Lucy, his honest smile and not the charming facade most women got. "Doyle and I can just skive off for the day."

Lucy met his eyes and shook her head firmly. "One of you needs to speak to 7.12, sir."

Bodie sobered immediately. "Trouble?" 

Lucy hesitated for a moment before replying. "It was a difficult op. 7.12 may not have been expecting . . ." she trailed off. "You should speak to him," she repeated.

Over the years, Bodie and Doyle had come to rely on Lucy's instincts and her discretion as back-up in their dealings with their agents. While she never violated a confidence, it was understood that if Lucy made a suggestion, it needed to be taken seriously.

"I'll do it," Doyle said. "Book me for lunch with him, after Bodie gets done with them." He met Bodie's questioning glance. "He's the lad from Doncaster, ex-CID."

"Ah." 

Bodie said no more. They each had their strengths in dealing with the agents; despite the differences in police work since his days on the drugs squad, former police officers were usually more comfortable bringing their concerns to Doyle.

The office they shared was a far cry from Cowley's utilitarian room, with its ranks of file cabinets and walls papered in maps. Their desks stood in front of a large window, with a view out over the Thames that many an executive would envy. A small sitting area with comfortable armchairs and an unobtrusive drinks cabinet occupied one corner, while a work table and a massive display screen took up most of one wall. A door led to a shower and dressing room, where Doyle kept a haphazard collection of jackets and ties next to two of Bodie's best suits.

Despite the early distraction, they kept to their usual morning routine. Bodie immediately started the kettle boiling, while Doyle called up the duty roster on the display screen, and Bodie synched his Blackberry to the system and put up both their daily schedules. Technically Doyle held the post of controller, with Bodie as his deputy, but in practice they were partners as much as they had been during their days of active service. After all the years, neither felt truly comfortable without knowing what the other was doing.

The updates from the duty officer indicated a quiet night, and Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances of heart-felt relief over their mugs of tea. 

Bodie looked with dismay at the thick file centred on his desk. "Bloody hell! How did one op accumulate that much paperwork?"

Doyle shook his head in fond exasperation. "It's in triplicate, you know that. Don't start now, the lads will be up from their tea any minute."

Bodie swept the file away with a grateful sigh. "Not like the parliamentary secretary reads the thing anyway."

"Best hope he takes better notes than the last one. Made a right balls-up of that presentation to the standing committee, he did. Shadow sec laughed like a drain."

The phone line gave a muted buzz, and Doyle snatched up the receiver.

"The lads here?"

"No, Mr. Doyle. It's the minister on line one." Only someone who knew Lucy as well as Doyle did would have recognized the concern in her voice.

"The minister? Bugger! Already?" Doyle looked over at Bodie in dismay. "We're in for it, and no mistake."

Bodie rubbed a soothing circle on Doyle's shoulder. "Put her on speaker," he said calmly. "It'll do her good to get it all out of her system at once."

Doyle threw up his hands but obeyed. 

"Doyle here. Good morning, minister. I've got Bodie on the speaker."

"Morning, ma'am." Doyle grinned as Bodie unconsciously straightened and pulled in his stomach slightly.

"Good, I'm glad I've got you both." When dealing with subordinates, the minister' no-nonsense Oxford vowels always gave the impression she was eager to get a conversation over with. "You can guess what was waiting for me at the breakfast table this morning, Doyle. Were you injured at all?"

"No, minister. Nothing bruised except my dignity."

"You're quite sure? The rumours flying around Whitehall have you and Bodie in a full-scale brawl with at least a dozen men,"

Bodie snickered. "A slight exaggeration, minister." 

"Honestly! At your age!" the minister scolded. "And why on earth didn't you put a D-notice out and have the reports quashed?"

Doyle stilled, and looked across at Bodie, seeing the same sudden apprehension on his partner's face that he felt himself. When he spoke, all trace of humour had left his voice.

"A D-notice is intended to keep issues of national security below the radar, not to save aging civil servants from embarrassment."

"Perhaps you should have given some thought to the embarrassment of the government," she retorted sharply. "I'm going to have to defend you in the House, you know. And the whole issue of CI5 itself is bound to come up again."

"Tell them to sod off," Bodie snapped. "Unless they _like_ bombs on buses and getting anthrax letters through the post."

"No one is going to question the value of the security services as a whole. However, given the continuing leaks coming out of the United States about the extent of their surveillance on their own people, serious questions are being raised about the scope of _our_ domestic powers. CI5 has always worked best on the principle of out of sight, out of mind."

Doyle put a hand on Bodie's arm as his partner visibly caught hold of his temper.

"Last night's little problem had nothing to do with CI5. We weren't even on duty. Or do you honestly think we're stupid enough to compromise an op?" Doyle firmly reined himself in before he went any further. Both of them losing their rag wouldn't do any good.

"No, I don't, Doyle. But then I know you. Many members of the caucus do not. Our constituency officers certainly do not. And those are the people who have been on the phone to my office since daybreak."

Doyle pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. "Why don't you come to the point, minister?"

The silence over the speaker went on so long Doyle began to wonder if they'd been cut off. When the minister finally spoke, her voice was grave. "One of you will have to go," she said slowly. 

"Go?" Doyle blinked. "You mean we're being sacked?"

" _One_ of you will be asked to retire. With full pension and honours. That seems to me a most generous settlement."

"Generous . . ." Doyle broke off as he realized exactly what was happening. "I'll remind you, minister, that being queer isn't a crime any more, but discrimination bloody well is."

"Do you really want to open that can of worms, Doyle? Once you begin those sorts of processes, there is no way to control the end result."

"Meaning?"

"You know as well as I do there is no statute of limitations on scandal. Or political unpopularity. If you were put under oath, could you swear that you and Bodie never had a relationship at a time when it _was_ illegal for you to do so?"

" _I_ could, minister," Bodie said. "With no trouble at all."

Doyle couldn't help a half-appalled laugh of approval. Trust Bodie to charge in, damn the torpedoes and all. 

"You do realize that we are in a legally sanctioned relationship?" Bodie went on very calmly, though his hand on the table was clenched so tightly the knuckles were white. "Homosexuality has not been a crime in almost fifty years. And Ray and I advised your predecessor of our relationship before we accepted the job."

"Don't play naïve, Bodie," she said stiffly. "There's a difference between legal sanction and public acceptance. In large areas of the country, men like you aren't—"

"Men like us?" Doyle interrupted. "I'm assuming you mean former police officers and former SAS sergeants, _minister_."

There was a moment of silence. When she went on, the minister's voice held a chill it had not before.

"If this party wants to continue to form the government after the next election, we need to win seats in constituencies populated largely by people more socially conservative than is the norm in London. If we are seen to be sanctioning—" she broke off suddenly.

Into the silence, Bodie said harshly, "I believe the words you're looking for are 'unusual proclivities'."

The silence this time was longer.

"I'm sorry." To Doyle's surprise there was a trace of genuine regret in her voice. "You two are good at your jobs—the best we've had there since George Cowley. But the government has to survive. What it takes to accomplish that may at times not be fair. Or even sensible. But that's politics, and both of you know it."

"Will you excuse us for a moment, minister?" Bodie didn't even wait for a response before he hit the mute switch.

"Bodie, what the hell?"

Bodie took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I'll go."

"Have you lost your bleeding mind?" 

"Damn it, Ray, all they want is a public sacrifice. Let them toss me out with enough publicity and we can persuade them to leave you in place." 

Doyle's hand shot across the desk to grip Bodie's wrist hard. "Negative, 3.7. We came together, we leave together." He scrubbed his other hand through his hair, tugging at a handful of curls in frustration. "C'mon mate, use your head. If they thought I wanted this job enough to give you the push for it, the pressure would never stop. There'd always be some arsehole thinking they could get their way by threatening to 'retire' me."

"Bloody-minded old bastard, aren't you?" Bodie said fondly. "And thank God for it." He twisted his arm to lock his hand around Doyle's. "But that doesn't change the facts. CI5 needs you."

"Needs _us_." Doyle shot Bodie a wry grin. "Much as I hate to admit it, I don't do half as well without your mad courage and ruthless common sense backing me up." He sobered, and the expression on his face was almost frightened. "I could be tempted, Bodie. It would be so fucking easy to think I'm indispensable."

"Pull the other one, sunshine. We've cut corners and held our noses at times, but megalomania's never been your deal."

"Because you keep my feet on the ground. Sometimes by stepping all over them, true, but it's what I need. Let the minister put one of her yes-men in your place, and how long before I forget what this is all really for?"

"Bloody roses and lavender." Bodie shook his head and relaxed, admitting defeat. "Cowley's got a lot to answer for."

"Enough," Doyle said wearily. He looked across the desk at Bodie, raised his eyebrows questioningly. Bodie gave a tight smile and a thumbs-up with his free hand.

Doyle hit the speaker button.

"Very well, minister. Our resignations will be in your office by the end of the day. I'm assuming there will be a reasonable transition period so our successors don't end up being thrown off the deep end without any guidance?"

"Both of you?" It was almost a squeak of shock. "It was never . . . I mean . . . It isn't expected that both of you resign."

"Think of all those constituency officers you can impress by announcing you've made a clean sweep of any compromised officials in CI5." Doyle's voice was dry as the Sahara.

"Full pensions." There was no disguising her relief. "And both of you on the next honours list, you have my guarantee."

"You can—" Doyle began hotly.

"Certainly do that if you wish," Bodie overrode him. "We'll send over the papers, and arrange an appointment at your convenience to discuss our replacements. Good day, ma'am."

He cut off the call.

"You can't be serious!" Doyle exploded. "Me? Baron Doyle of Derby or some such rot?"

Bodie raised his chin. "Always fancied meself as Sir William. You could paint my portrait to hang in the lounge, all full of hunting dogs and dead pheasants and vague ancestral symbols in the background."

"Bodie, it's no joke." Doyle shot to his feet, pacing angrily back and forth between the desks and the window. 

"Too bloody right it's no joke. They're kicking us out because they don't have a set of balls among the whole damn cabinet. It's their loss in the long run. They'd rather scrap an honest man who'll do the right thing come hell or high water, than stand up to the _Daily Sun_? Then sod them all."

"Cowley would have thought of something." Doyle pressed his hands over his eyes and let his head drop. "Had them all eating out of his hand by lunch time."

Bodie nodded. "More than likely. But that's because Cowley never had anything to lose. _Anyone_ to lose. Hostages to fortune, you and me, and we've always known it."

"And you'll accept a knighthood from the likes of them."

"I'll be accepting the knighthood from the Queen." Bodie looked down his nose. "Better make sure our soup-and-fish still fit." At Doyle's mutinous expression, he threw up his hands.

"C'mon, Raymond, _think_. If we throw the honours list back in her face, she'll feel resentful, guilty and self-righteous. Anything we say after that will be muck. But, if she thinks she's bought us off, her conscience will be clear, and she just might listen when we recommend someone to replace us." 

"You devious old sod!" Doyle's face was alight with admiration. "You need to remind me there's a brain behind those blue eyes more often."

"Keep 'em guessing, that's my motto."

"No, I imagine it'll be something like 'Swiss roll omne pares'. Two sausages rampant."

Bodie snickered. "A gun and a pint in argent, with a bend sinister." He took on a wicked look Doyle was all too familiar with.

Doyle sighed. "C'mon, then. Out with it."

"On the honours list? I'm going to suggest they name you a prince of elfland."

THE END


End file.
